


Wide Eyes, Blind Love

by heavensfallingaroundus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, M/M, Songfic, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of AU(ish) songfics. A tale of love, heartbreak and despair, told through the ten tracks of Passenger's masterpiece album "Wide Eyes, Blind Love."<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starlings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they fall in love on a winter morning.

  
_Well, we watched the starlings fly,_   
_Around the burnt-down pier and die,_   
_Spilled my coffee on my sleeve,_   
_He wiped it with a smile,_   
_And told me I was juvenile,_   
_And kissed me softly on my cheek_

_And his hair danced in the breeze,_   
_Like a thousand swinging trees,_   
_In a forest lying next to stormy seas_

_Well, we watched the wintery sky,_   
_Turn a shade of turquoise, I,_   
_Whispered softly, "I feel lost,"_   
_He turned with laughing eyes,_   
_And curled his lips towards the sky,_   
_And said, "get your map out, then, you knob!"_   
_And we laughed like a pair of fools,_   
_Like kids, they laugh at school,_   
_And we wandered home before the day brought dusk_

**Passenger - Starlings**

 

The English country had never looked so perfect as it did that day, John thought. Nothing in the world could've made him sad, angry or frustrated in that moment. All he felt, running through his bones, his veins, his whole self, was a complete and utter sense of profound happiness and peace with the universe. The sun wasn't there yet: it seemed to be on the point of coming out at any minute, although all they could see, as minutes passed, was more and more light but no sun itself, seemingly very lazy that day, and not bothering to even take a peek from up above the pines that framed the little lake. Starlings of big black birds were moving above their heads, the air was cold, the wind was blowing, but none of them had the slightest intention to go anywhere.

  
Sherlock had decided to take him to the Lake District because of its fame of being a particularly inspiring place. He hadn't mentioned that it'd be romantic, too, although he'd probably implied it in some strange way that John couldn't ever have worked out properly. He was an idiot, after all. His favorite idiot.  
John knew of course about the great Romantics, Wordsworth and Coleridge, and many other poets and writers that he'd admired so much in his youth, about the fact that they'd spent their whole life in the place where he and Sherlock were in that exact moment. He felt somehow privileged to be cherishing the view of the same beautiful landscapes, to be breathing the same fresh, bitterly cold air that they'd breathed (although who was he kidding, Manchester and Blackpool were a few hours away, the air probably used to be fresher in those days). To put it very bluntly, anyhow, the Lake District had brought out John Watson's inner romantic nature, and oh God if only Sherlock knew what it meant.

  
Lost in his thoughts, John didn't pay attention to what he was holding, namely his thermic cup containing some strong coffee, black, no sugar please, which was consequently spilled all over his sleeve and which he immediately thought would surely make him smell like a Starbucks place for the following hours.  
"Oh _great_ " he said, shaking his arm to try and get rid of the hot dark beverage that would permanently stain his woolly coat. "Just.. great." He then cursed a bit, keeping his voice low. Sherlock heard him nonetheless. Of course he did.  
He burst into laughter, like it had been the funniest thing he'd ever seen, his beautiful eyes lighting up when he met John's slightly annoyed gaze, which made him laugh even more. _Juvenile_ , John thought, before sticking his middle finger at him and though not resisting to smile in return, amused by his friend's singing laughter. He couldn't help being happy when he saw him like that.  
"Oi, Sherlock, what's so funny? Give us a hand here, will ya?" John asked, pointing at the big stain on his sleeve. Sherlock walked the two steps that separated him from John, took out his napkin and began wiping off the coffee from John's coat, his fingers casually brushing the skin of John's wrists while doing it. As he completed his task, he shook his head, his curls dancing in the wintery breeze, and he leaned in to press a soft kiss on John's cheek. "You silly fool" he whispered when he backed away but not completely, his face remaining just a few inches from John's, their breathing suddenly increased.

  
In the meantime, the sky was turning a stunning shade of turquoise. Time froze, as Sherlock stood closer to John and as his hands slowly made their way in the back of John's neck, caressing him slightly, more like holding him in place. John could have sworn he'd stopped breathing a while before that. He was trying to think of something to say, something to do with his own hands, but no he couldn't. Oh God, where was Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, in moments like that? He just felt so..  
"..lost" he muttered, as he couldn't bring himself to say anything else.  
"What? What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, tilting John's head upwards so he could look in his eyes. They were bluer than the morning sky, and John had often asked himself if a colour like that did even actually exist, like, in real life. No answers came to him, not even that day.  
"I feel lost" John managed to get out. The warmth irradiating from Sherlock's body was indescribable. He smelled like home, like 221B and fresh scones and hot tea and everything good in that old, cruel world.  
"Well" Sherlock said, his lips curling towards the sky, that smile again. "Get you map out then, you knob." he said, closing the distance between them and kissing John, a soft, brief kiss before both of them started laughing. The kiss became awkward and even clumsy, as they somehow managed to trip over each other's feet as John tugged at Sherlock's coat to keep him as close as possible. They laughed, and they kissed again. And it felt good and nothing else mattered in the world, and the sun came out that day like expected, and they just lied there in the grass for God only knows how many hours, and they held hands while they wandered home, just before the sun decided to take another nap, plunging itself in the cold darkness of the lake.


	2. I See Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John and Sherlock are getting somewhere, and everything is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I got a pretty angry message on fanfiction.net, I'm no longer posting the story there. I didn't know that I couldn't post lyrics, because I always see songfics with the lyrics before or after the story. So I've decided to delete the story from there and to cut the lyrics here, so it's not the entirety of the work I'm "copying and pasting", as that person has so friendly put it. It is not my intention to exploit the works of Mike Rosenberg (aka Passenger), I simply got the inspiration from there, and I feel very connected to the songs he wrote. I'm not taking any credit at all for what HE wrote, on the contrary, by letting you read his words I'm giving him the credit he deserves for what he created. So I'm sorry if my copying the lyrics offends anyone, just let me know and I'll cut it from here too.

 

_We’ll roll down dirty old windows_   
_And sing with our eyes closed_   
_And belt out the high notes._

_And we’ll go down to the beach_   
_Where the wind blows_   
_And we’ll throw off our old clothes_   
_And we’ll dance with our eyes closed._

_Because I see love_   
_I see love when I close my eyes_

_Yeah, we’ll watch the stars glow_   
_And the flames burn the wood slow_   
_Playing games with our shadows_   
_Till all four of our eyes close._

_And darling we’ll sleep close_   
_With no blankets or pillows_   
_Like the Wind in the Willows_   
_And we’ll dream with our eyes closed._

                                                                    **Passenger - I See Love**

 

“Sherlock, come see this” John called him from the living room, where he was chilling with a cup of Earl Grey and his laptop. Sherlock emerged a few instants after, removing his safety goggles and his gloves and shoving them onto the kitchen table, making quite a lot of unnecessary noise, if you asked John, but then again that was Sherlock being interrupted during one of his experiments. And to be honest, Sherlock coming to him when asked to was big news, too, something that didn’t really use to happen before they’d gotten together, a few months back. He’d simply tell him to piss off and leave him be, with his bloody specimens and his seemingly _vital_ research. But not anymore, or so it seemed.  
“What, John, I was in the middle of an imp.. Oh you finally managed to get the photos out of the bloody thing!” he said, suddenly lighting up. He sat down on the sofa, next to John, snuggling beside him and stealing his hot cuppa, which he brought to his lips and suddenly yiked and gave it back to its original owner. What was the matter with John and not being able to realize that everything was better with a little sugar? He made a disgusted face and then his lips curled up in a big innocent smile, as he _always_ did.  
“Yeah, thanks for that, kiddo. Shall we watch the bloomin’ photos, as it took me so long to get them on here?” John asked, to which Sherlock simply nodded. At that point, no words were needed: John leaned in and allowed Sherlock to hug him, while he rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. _Home_ , he thought.  
  
“Oh look, the beach! You’ve really loved it, didn’t you?” Sherlock giggled, at the memory of John being so hyper that he’d actually got naked and jumped into the freezing cold Blackpool sea. Doctor John Hamish Watson had got pretty wild, that night, all things considered, Sherlock remembered with a cheeky smile, meeting John’s gaze and reading in his eyes that he had perfectly understood what was going on in his mind.  
The photo showed a very amused John Watson, splashing around half naked (fully, actually), regardless of the cold weather or anyone else on that beach, as a matter of fact, apart from Sherlock, of course. He was laughing, and he was staring right into the eye of the camera. Sherlock remembered that gaze, and he remembered seeing _love_.  
“I did, as a matter of fact” John stated, pinching Sherlock’s thigh through those extremely tight trousers. “Or I would’ve, if you hadn’t hidden my clothes afterwards”  
Sherlock giggled slightly, pulling John closer, his head now on his own chest.  
“Oh come on. You were beautiful.”  
“Yeah, right. Poor excuse to keep me naked for a few more minutes, Sherlock Holmes. I thought you were better than that.” John flirted, feeling Sherlock’s gaze on his blond locks. Next photo.  
“Oh, nice. This was you making it up to me after nearly letting me die of pneumonia.” John commented at a picture of a big fire on the same beach of the previous photos, only this time it was nothing but darkness and the flickering light of the fire on his body, enveloped in a big towel. He was, again, staring into the eye of the camera.  
“You looked beautiful” was all Sherlock could say. He remembered that moment, he remembered John being actually pissed at him because of the earlier prank with the clothes, but he’d still “posed” for that photo. He looked cross, he was obviously cold and angry, but then.. Then he’d see in, over the layers of fabric and contrasting feelings, he’d see _love_ in his eyes.  
“Oh no, I didn’t, I looked like a newborn chick and I was freezing my arse off, you enormous tart.” John laughed, punching Sherlock on his arm and then giving in to the kiss they’d both longed for since they’d started watching the photos of their holiday together.  
 _Yes, you did, and I loved you in that moment, more than anything_ , Sherlock thought.  
They’d slept under the stars, they’d made love and they’d kept their eyes closed when she sun had come, because the moment had seemed too perfect to be spoiled by the coming of the day.  
Because Sherlock Holmes, in spite of himself, had given in to feelings, which he’d always stated as a weakness, which were relegated in a cold dark basement full of damp in his mind palace, and to which he’d sworn to his personal higher power (himself) he wouldn’t ever succumb. Well then, John Watson was bad news for brain work, that was for sure, but oh he’d done wonders to heal his heart. He loved him, and he wasn’t going to let him go.


	3. Wide Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John wants to travel the world and Sherlock is a lazy arse, but John loves him anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! If you're reading this, thank you for sticking with me. I hope you're enjoying it so far, I promise it gets better. Or shall I say worse? But then again, you have read the warning.  
> Lots of love!

_ Well I’ve not seen Alaskan white _

_ and I’ve not seen Tokyo by night _

_ and I’ve not seen the northern lights _

_ But I have seen your wide eyes tonight. _

_ I have never packed my case _

_ Gone underground or out into space _

_ When my gaze rests heavy on your face _

_ Well, your wide eyes are my favourite place _

_ Yeah, your wide eyes are my favourite place _

                                                                             **Passenger - Wide Eyes**  

 

John had been flicking through brochures and leaflets of travel companies for what seemed like days. He had managed to restrict his field of interest to three many destinations, which had always tickled his fantasies: he was a Londoner, that was true, but he’d chosen to become a soldier also because he knew he’d be travelling, and he felt he had the heart of a traveller. He wanted to live 200 years to go and see the world, and he wanted Sherlock to be with him for the whole of his journey.

On the other hand, Sherlock was, indeed, married to his work. Which meant rushing to Scotland Yard whenever he was called, endless ups and downs on and off London cabs and, most importantly, that leaving London over the Holidays wasn’t in his Christmas wishlist. Like _at all_. 

“I thought we’d made this clear already, John” Sherlock had been watching what he’d been doing over his shoulder and had decided to make his entrance by whispering those words in John’s ear. John jumped on the spot and nearly spilled his tea all over his leaflets, which Sherlock prevented from happening only thanks to his ninja skills. He then proceeded to hand the mug back to John and he circumnavigated the armchair, to come and face a very cross-looking John Watson.

“You seriously have to stop doing that, you know.”

Sherlock smiled and unbuttoned his black jacket, exposing a very _very_ tight white shirt underneath.

“Sorry honey, I thought you liked me from behind.”

_Cheeky bastard_ , John thought.

“ _Very funny_ , Mr. Holmes. Now take your pick, will ya? Alaska, Tokyo or..”

“..Norway? You know what I’m going to say, don’t you John. It’s been a year and if I have not taught you anything about deduction, God help me I’m failing as a detective and as a boyfriend.” Sherlock considered, still smiling and biting an apple that he’d just taken from the basket on the coffee table. He then sat down on the armchair opposite John’s, and he fixed his eyes in his.

“London, of course. But Sherlock.. Christmas.. You, me.. Away from the bloody city for one week? Please? For me?” John had gone into full-on puppy eyes mode. He just sat there, pointing at the leaflets, praying to look exactly like the Puss in boots from Shrek. A cute, baby animal, sad looking but with a mischievous purpose.

“I cannot be out of London over Christmas, John. You remember what happened last year, I believe.” Sherlock said, bringing himself to ignore the sad look on John’s big eyes. _I must not give in._

“But.. But I wanna see Tokyo by night! I wanna see the northern lights, I wanna see Alaskan snow like on _Into The Wild_ , I want to travel the world and..” John interrupted his moaning, closed his eyes and seemed struck by realisation when he opened them. “..and I’m basically in love with a homestuck high-functioning sociopath who just loves his London Christmas murder, am I not.” he said, curling his lips into a smile, putting the leaflets back on the coffee table and picking his mug up again. He took a sip of his now mildly cold tea and he shook his head, fixing his eyes into Sherlock’s.

“Just so. Perfectly sound analysis, Doctor Watson. A+.” Sherlock said, smirking at him and then proceeding to bite on his apple again.

“Am I ever going to get anything out of you, I wonder sometimes.” John replied, while getting up from his seat and leaning over Sherlock, to tease his curls and plant a soft kiss on his lips. _Next year, perhaps_.

 

 

***

 

On Christmas Eve, John came back from his evening walk a little earlier, convinced not to find anyone at home and that he’d be able to set up a bit of a special dinner for the two of them, since Sherlock had specifically asked him not to invite anyone that year, prior to avoiding bad jokes from Lestrade, moaning from Mrs. Hudson about Sherlock not being nice to her any other time of the year except over Christmas and, of course, Molly’s Christmas dresses. Once had been far too much for a lifetime, for the whole Baker Street gang. So John had gone shopping and he’d brought home some fresh fish, some white wine and a cheeky little dessert that they could feed each other after dinner. On the bed. Maybe. Even if that sounded pathetic, as he was, after all, 38, _yes_ he had a Christmas list and _oh yes_ , Sherlock was the main item on it.

So as he stepped up the stairs of the flat, failing not to make the third to last step squeak as he did every time, he could hear pots and pans being messed with in the kitchen, and he could smell burnt toast and cranberry sauce gone badly. This could only mean one thing, but he didn’t dare to believe it until he was able to see what was going on in the kitchen.

Of course, Sherlock was _actually_ jumping from a corner of the kitchen to the other, stirring the content of one pot and tasting the content of another, listening to some female voice from his iPad, who was telling him to “let the sauce simmer for at least 30 minutes on slow, stirring occasionally to prevent it from burning”. All John could think of, while spying on him from around the corner, was that he looked fucking adorable and oh God hadn’t he even heard him getting into the house? 

John thought he’d let him be, because he needed a shower and he couldn’t bring himself to spoil the cuteness of Sherlock Holmes tackling a new challenge, namely cooking a Christmas dinner. John briefly considered how much space this was going to take into Sherlock’s hard-drive, and he laughed at himself for that.

The shower felt good, he warmed up quite a bit and after drying his hair briefly, he got into some clean clothes and went downstairs, where smells were starting to turn from bad to yummy. John was presented with the view of an exhausted newfound chef Holmes and his creations, all well presented on their dinner table, while the man himself was still struggling with the turkey in the oven.

“Does the world only consulting detective need a hand, perhaps?” John offered, grinning like an idiot from the frame of the door. Sherlock looked up from his kneeling position beside the oven, and his eyes told John _yes, please, let me out of this nonsense and this madness_.

And John obliged.

A few minutes later, they were enjoying a fine red wine and lovely Christmas dinner, kindly provided by Sherlock Holmes, inc. (with a little help from Dr. John H. Watson). It was the best dinner they’d ever had, and they both got a little too much wine and ended up cuddling on the sofa, their bellies full and their heads light.

They didn’t even exchange presents, they just stayed there, gazing into each other’s eyes, laughing at nothing and generally enjoying the smell of Christmas in the air (or was it just the apple crumble they’d been nibbling on for the past few hours), and time didn’t seem to pass, and John simply concluded that he didn’t actually care about where he was or how many lights were around him, or if he’d ever see Alaska. It didn’t matter if he’d never be able to go to space or underground, because they were together, and Sherlock’s eyes would always be his favourite place.


	4. Snowflakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get tough. John clings to Sherlock. Sherlock tries not to break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry to have kept you waiting (if you are even reading this, that is, LOL). Here is the new chapter! I think I'll schedule posting chapters so you have an update every Sunday from now on :)
> 
> Love you!!
> 
> x

**Snowflakes**

 

Every light will fade into the dark,

But every night will die just like the last,

Snowflakes on the water,

Snowflakes on the frozen sea,

Snowflakes in the playground,

Snowflakes clothing naked trees

 

No stars in sight lying on the lawn,

But every night is darkest before dawn

Snowflakes on the water,

Snowflakes on the frozen sea,

Snowflakes in the playground,

Snowflakes clothing naked trees

 

 

They’d just booked tickets to get away together. John had finally convinced Sherlock that a getaway from the City, all its smog, all its fast foods and all its black cabs, was for the best. So he’d done that, he’d gone on his trusty computer and he’d found a relatively cheap offer and he’d taken it without second thoughts. A few minutes later, he’d showed up in the kitchen, nearly jumping out of his shoes from happiness, and he’d announced Sherlock that they were going to Paris over New Year. Sherlock had faked his usual unimpressed expression for a few seconds, not even averting his gaze from his microscope, but eventually a big smile had begun to creep up on his face, he’d gotten up and he’d kissed him in a way that had swung John off his feet and left him completely breathless.

“You know, I have this need to see Paris since I can remember” John had said a few hours later, cuddled up to Sherlock who was reading a crime novel and occasionally commenting on how boring it was and how the maid had _obviously_ done it, that it had been obvious since the beginning of the bloody book.

“Hm-mm” Sherlock had commented, flipping a few pages at a time. No need to lose precious time reading Detective Poirot’s unimpressive deduction about the situation. He needed _facts_.

“I mean it, though. Means no excessive amounts of time spent in a hotel room.”

At which point Sherlock had straightened up a bit and had looked at John in a way that one could describe only as _cheeky_. “Oh does it now.”

“You bet it does.”

“Well, we’ll see about that, I suppose.” Sherlock had said, planting a soft kiss on John’s forehead and positively throwing the Agatha Christie book out of his bedroom. This had somehow reminded him of that one time he’d seen Doctor Who with John and that weird tall bloke had thrown a slice of bread and butter out of his front door. How _dreadful_.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, love.”

 

***

 

Thinking about it, John had been experiencing cough for a few weeks now, and he’d begun to feel tired very quickly. He was often short of breath when he walked up the stairs of the flat and he’d been having strong and never-ending pain in his left shoulder for a while. When Sarah had seen him practically down on his knees from pain, she’d asked him if everything was alright. Yeah, he’d said, it was just his old wound that had come and visit him to wish him a happy Christmas and probably the cough was due to the fact that he was still refusing to wear scarves in December.

Still, even when he said this, he didn’t actually believe it. He’d started to worry. 

But then one night he woke up in the middle of the night, screaming from the pain in his chest and coughing away something that couldn’t be blood, come on, it must’ve been something else, but then again how many red liquids does one human have in his own body, and yes it was blood and it was coming out of his mouth and Sherlock totally freaked out on the spot. Then again, he was able to get John a glass of water, a clean towel to wipe his mouth and.. And that was it, because there’s not much one could do except wait and see if it’ll pass.

The next day, after not sleeping to check on John, Sherlock insisted on taking John to the clinic and do some blood tests and get x-rayed and please Sarah let him be alright, I need him, don’t let him die on me, please, not today nor in the next 150 years.

But of course it would’ve been too good to be true.

“Stage three” Sarah told Sherlock, while John was asleep on his hospital bed. Of course, Sherlock had read it in her eyes before she even started thinking of how to put it. “There’s not much we can do.” She paused, and then talked again.

“I mean, we could try chemoth..”

“Oh _please_ don’t.” Sherlock interrupted her, raising his eyes from John’s fragile, cancer-invaded body to meet her worried and extremely sad gaze. He’d not been crying. He just felt extremely empty. “Don’t start and tell me you could do this, and you could do that, my mother had lung cancer and a third of London risks lung cancer these days, just bloody tell me what are his chances or how much he has to live otherwise.”

Sarah looked cross and wounded. She lowered her gaze, not quite able to sustain Sherlock’s penetrating blue eyes and his accusatory look, as if it was her fault if his partner was dying.

“Since the cancer has spread, we cannot operate. With chemotherapy, his chances of surviving would be few, but it’s better than none at all. Otherwise, if he decides not to be treated, he has one year at best. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Okay.” he simply said. “Thank you.”

“Call me when he wakes up.”

 

***

 

John didn’t want to cling to life. He didn’t want to become a science experiment. He was a doctor, and he knew what it meant to try and fail, and he didn’t want either for Sarah to find herself in the dreadful situation of not being able to help a friend, or on the other hand ending up being the actual hopeless piece of meat that was told that maybe if they tried this or that he’d have a few more days. He’d looked Death straight in the eye once in his life, already, and he’d come out clean. It wasn’t going to happen again, and he’d decided to simply accept it. One year, Sarah had said: one year that he most certainly wouldn’t want to be spending in and out of hospitals.

When Sherlock took him home, a few days after the news, everything around him felt so much different and darker and suffocating. London had never been his dream, anyway. Good job he’d gotten himself a detective for a boyfriend.

“John” Sherlock said, seating him down on the couch while he walked around the living room, his palms under his chin, a single tear escaping out of his right eye.

“I respect your decision. But I have decided something myself, while I thought about all of this, and you are not allowed to protest or say no in any conceivable way because otherwise I’m going to have to force you to do it and it wouldn’t be fun for either of us.”

John started to question him with his eyes, at this point. What on _Earth_ could he mean?

“I have bought a caravan. Yesterday. A big one. A _very_ big one. We can set up everything you need for treatment in there, and then I am going to drive you anywhere you want, whatever you want to see, we’ll get there.” Sherlock had stopped his pacing around for a moment, to be able to look into John’s eyes. He’d lit up and he was smiling, for the first time in what seemed like years.

“How could I possibly say no to _this_?”

 

***

 

They were cuddling under three woolen covers, all wrapped up in their winter coats, both of them holding cups of steaming hot tea and watching the fading lights in the sky. A fire was burning a few meters away from them.

“You know, this reminds me an awful lot of the scenery of our get-together” John observed, while trying to look in the distance, into the woods, and failing to see over the wooden fence that separated the hill where they were camping from the rest of the land.

“I do bother with details now, you know.” Sherlock replied, smiling but feeling an extreme sense of sadness beginning to creep up inside him.

“You didn’t use to.”

Snow started to fall over their bodies, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, snowflakes touching the ground with extremely soft thuds that were audible in the quietness of the night. They covered the small pond at the bottom of the hill, the naked branches of the trees, the whole of nature, and it embraced the two of them in a cold but heartwarming way. John smiled.

“I’m going to miss this.” he whispered, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t hear him.

 

“I’m going to miss you.”


	5. What Will Become Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are traveling to try and get away from the pain, but they find themselves stuck in it. Also, they love France.

**What Will Become Of Us**

 

_ Well, wood burns, and metal rusts, _

_ So, darling, what’s to become of us, _

_ When the weather turns, and they say it must, _

_ Well, we’ll need coats for the both of us, _

_ But the wool is thin and it’s full of holes, _

_ And there’s no heat in this abandoned bus, _

_ So will we go alone, out on our own, _

_ Oh, darling, what’s to become of us? _

 

 

“Do you ever ask yourself what’s going to become of us?” John asked out of the blue one day, while they were chilling in the back of the caravan, parked in the French countryside. “After we die, I mean.”

Spring was blooming around them. Lavender was starting to turn from greyish-green to its characteristic shade of violet, bees were buzzing in and out of newborn flowers, the air was chilly but the sun shone brightly. John Watson was being consumed by his own damaged body cells. His lungs weren’t working properly anymore, his shoulder felt like it was being pierced every time he moved his arm whenever he wasn’t on painkillers, his body was still hot but his heart felt colder and colder.

No wonder all he could think was death.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. He still hadn’t fully accepted the situation. Understandable, though, wasn’t it. His first love, his life, his everything would be no more only a few months from then, and he couldn’t do anything to prevent it from happening. Nothing at all.

“Wood burns, metal rusts, biological organisms rot and become food for worms.” Sherlock simply said. “Or in alternative, you can fasten the process and choose to be burned instead. Up to you.” He then proceeded to bury his face in the guide of Provence that he’d been flicking through for the last two hours.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean it like that, smartarse.” John joked, poking Sherlock in the thigh. He didn’t avert his gaze from the guide, though, nor even dared to smile. “Hey, love, what’s going on?” John asked, delicately taking the book from Sherlock’s hands and meeting his boyfriend’s deep blue, extremely teary eyes.

John had never seen him cry. Not even once. Not from sadness, anyway. He’d seen his rage, he’d seen his happiness, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him being genuinely taken by this kind of  profound and utter sadness, the one he was showing on his face right now. Hopelessness. Discomfort. Void. John couldn’t bring himself to speak. He just felt a massive lump forming in his throat, and all he could do was getting closer to him, as close as he could possibly get. He wanted to hold him, he wanted to tell him everything was going to be alright — but it wasn’t, was it. It was as if the both of them were trying to protect themselves from the cold wind under the same coat, but the coat was thin and full of bloody holes, and there was nothing none of them could do to prevent the other from freezing.

Sherlock took John’s head in his hands, and somehow words flowed out of his mouth, while he swallowed some more tears.

“It’s just.. It’s just not fair. I.. I don’t want you to go. You weren’t supposed to be going so soon. You don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this. I need you, John. You make me a better man, you’ve been doing it since we’ve known each other. I owe you so much. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me John, please. Pl..” he started crying again, harder this time, not managing to keep it together any longer. He just sobbed away, John simply held him and started crying too.

He’d never seen Sherlock so broken, and it frankly hadn’t been in his bucket list of things to do before dying (which frankly was just _hilarious_ , thinking of the circumstances), and still it was happening. The two of them, cuddled together in the back of the caravan, their teas left on the bedside table getting cold and impregnating the air with a warm, homey smell: nothing felt strange or wrong about that moment, except the suffocating sadness one could feel in the air.

 

***

 

After the “breakdown” in the caravan two days earlier, Sherlock had said to himself that he should never allow himself to let John see him like that, ever again. He had to be strong for the both of them, in fact he had to be even stronger, because who knew for how much John could cope like this. Maybe they’d be forced to get back home eventually. Maybe John would never die on the road, in his arms, like he knew he’d want to, maybe he’d be in a hospital bed, maybe Sherlock wouldn’t be with him when it’d happen. This simply wasn’t an option, so he _had to_ make sure he was looking after John 24/7.

They had driven as far as Giverny. Sherlock, despite his theory about everything else other than brainwork being “transport”, did love his French Impressionists, and this was the definitive Mecca of Claude Monet lovers, and of course when Sherlock had not hidden his enthusiasm about going there, John couldn’t help but feeling all chuffed inside, and outside.

While they were walking on the beautiful Japanese bridge over the famous little canal with the water lilies that the old Monet had paint until he’d been unable to paint anymore, John was struck with a sudden realization. Sherlock seemed lost in his thoughts, clearly taking in all the beauty of the place.

“D’you know what, Sherlock” John started, while slowly pacing towards the barrier of the bridge, holding Sherlock’s hand a little tighter and managing to make him look into his own eyes. The sun was coming down and the whole place was tinted a dark shade of orange, the sky was clear and Sherlock looked absolutely beautiful in that light, as did his eyes, turning somehow darker and greener, unlike the usual pale blue they used to be in a standard white light. _Heterocromia_ , he thought. _I got myself a man with the most beautiful eyes in the whole wide world_.

Sherlock looked back down at him, clearly cherishing the moment, before muttering a “Hmm?” in response.

“I wouldn’t mind staying here forever.” _Or what’s left of forever_ , he thought, though he didn’t have the guts to formulate the words. “With you.”

Sherlock looked deep into his soul, and he smiled softly. He was sad, John could tell. Sad because he knew that an eternity between them didn’t exactly correspond to what was generally considered to be an eternity, but it was more or less around the six months mark now, sad because this was all so perfect and they both were wishing they could freeze this moment and just stay like this, like John had just said, _forever_. His heart hurt a little more than his shoulder, at that point.

“Me too.” Sherlock answered, coming closer to him and pulling him into a hug. “Me too, John.”

“Imagine that.” John whispered into his chest, before pulling out of the hug and leaning his forehead’s on Sherlock’s. “Two middle-aged British men, eating cheese, getting themselves into fishing and complaining about no-one being able to make a decent plate of baked beans and eggs. Or to queue properly.”

Sherlock chuckled and brought his lips on John’s. He still tasted like the strawberry shortcake they’d eaten a few minutes earlier on the patio of the Monet museum.

“Yeah, I can totally picture that” he said, looking down at his beautiful man. “Except for the fishing, maybe. Dreadful business. I thought you’d gathered by now that I am not a very patient man, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock said, raising his eyes to the sky.

“We could, though. We could stay here, grow old and get bored together, and not give a fuck about it because it’d be us, and us only.”

Sherlock seemed to contemplate the thought for a minute, and then he closed his eyes as if he was trying to actually picture something in his head. 

“Let’s. Let’s sink together. Let’s rot together. Let’s be stuck under stones and flowers and let’s French painters make us immortal.”

And in that moment John knew that Sherlock was painting a picture in his mind. A big, big picture for the mantlepiece of his mind palace, the one that would stand out from the rest of the furniture, the one that he’d probably thought he’d even be able to paint. The perfect painting of happiness, a house on a hill, one or two dogs, sunflowers in their garden and the smell of fresh toast in the mornings, his love beside him.

 

_I don’t want you to go without me, John, and I don’t think I will let you do it_.


End file.
